


Her Hand in Marriage

by donttellmemyusernameisused



Series: Holmesbury Fics [1]
Category: Enola Holmes (2020)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Marriage Proposal, Tewky being the supportive man he is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:47:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26834662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/donttellmemyusernameisused/pseuds/donttellmemyusernameisused
Summary: A story of how Tewkesbury goes about asking for Enola's hand in marriage, because he is a romantic fool and because he would never want to chain Enola down, but he is also a man of tradition.  So he intends to marry her, properly.
Relationships: Enola Holmes/Viscount "Tewky" Tewksbury
Series: Holmesbury Fics [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1968481
Comments: 44
Kudos: 1002





	Her Hand in Marriage

**Author's Note:**

> I have never read the book and I am not sure if Tewkesbury (spelling it the way netflix spelt it...) has a first name in the book. But I can't find it anywhere on the internet so I am lazily calling him Louis in my head after the actor.

When Tewkesbury decided to marry Enola, he pointedly did not ask for his mother’s opinion, or worse, permission, because he was not sure what she would have to say. 

“Mother, I intend to ask for Miss Holmes’s hand in marriage,” he said. It might be hard to see now, but the Dowager was a good grandmother. She taught him to be very precise with his choice of words, how to play the game of polite society, a lesson his father had not cared to give. So he specifically did _not_ say he “wish to” even if this marriage was in fact nothing more than his own wish at this point, because that would prompt a conversation he would not have. He intended to marry her and what his mother would say did not matter. 

His mother nodded and went back to eating her scone, recognising that her opinion was not warranted. They again settled into their amiable silence usual to their afternoon tea together. 

“I would not have said no,” his mother eventually said, “if you had allowed me the opportunity.”

Tewkesbury’s head shot up. His mother looked at him, teacup in her hand. He realised that he had hurt her after swearing that he would not again, not after everything. 

“She is a lovely girl from a good family. Granted, she might be a bit … unconventional,” she paused, “but I thought, after your grandmother, unconventional is good, no?” 

She was angry at the mother-in-law that took away her husband’s life and almost her son’s too – there was not much a woman could rely on in the world and she had almost taken everything from her. She was tired of the suffocating traditions that gave the Dowager motivation and left her powerless. She did not even have the pleasure of seeing her in prison. Her son, the poor kind-hearted boy, convinced her that pressing charges would not be good for their family name, though she knew he just could not bear the thought of his grandmother in those cold cells. So she smiled a little, at the thought of the energetic young woman sharing their family home, being rude to her mother-in-law at every turn possible. Still, she just wanted –

“It was never my intention to make you unhappy, in your position or in your marriage,” she said, an apology and a blessing all at once, “I liked to think your father and I had made each other happy in what time we had. I would want that for you too.”

Her son looked shocked when he choked out his thank you and she wondered when exactly it had gone so terribly wrong that he stopped expecting her to make him happy. 

“Oh, Louie,” she said morosely, reaching over to hold his hand. 

Tewkesbury gave his mother a wet smile. Well, that had gone better than expected. 

––

He did not ask for the Holmes brothers’ permission either, because it was not theirs to give. Still, he thought it best to pretend. He did not want another near death experience. 

“I want your blessing to marry your sister, if she agrees to it,” he said, careful again with his word choices – _Blessing_ not permission, _she_ not them. 

Mycroft nodded. Tewkesbury had a feeling that he would not get much resistance from him. What he was proposing was proper, better even than he had ever hoped for their sister. It was Sherlock he was worried about, because he would see it the way Enola would. His title and wealth held little regard in Sherlock’s mind. Detectives did not need a title and Enola could earn her own money. What they need is a clarity of mind, perhaps certain anonymity and most definitely independence – all of which he could not give to Enola. Yes, he thought, Sherlock would be quite opposed to Enola having more attachment to him. But he did not come to ask for their permission, only their blessing, though he doubted he would get it. 

Sherlock raises his eyebrows, his smile sadistic, “if you could convince her.” 

Which brought him to his current predicament. 

––

Enola is not completely blind to his feelings, though he doubts she knows the depth of it, that to him, there would be no other. He is the romantic one of the two, believing in fate and fallen trees and epiphanies and he knows that it was fate that they had met, that he would not have the luck to fall into the arms of another beautiful, intelligent woman that makes his heart scream again. So he is not going to let her go, not until she tells him off, not until his attentions become as welcomed as her brothers’, not for as long as she allows him to be at her side. And that’s the thing, she allows him to – she always manages to find him for a short mission in her case or a little chat before he was due at the Lords. His feelings are not completely unreturned then, he grins with much satisfaction whenever he cannot know when they would meet next. It’s enough for him for now, that she comes to him on her own terms. So he doesn’t ask her either – he never asks the right question when it comes to Enola anyways. 

Instead he shows up at the door of her lodgings, whenever he is in London and sits until he gets to see her or until he needs to go. The landlady looks at him with much curiosity. It is a clean house, not like the one Enola first rented, where other female occupants were most definitely prostitutes. Here, there are other girls, far more modest and humble girls, that would not have taken a young man’s frequent visits lightly. They giggle and courtesy and hide. He stays in the kitchen where everyone comes for food and does not dare to walk up the stairs to the rooms. He is going to marry Enola, and it is going to be a respectable marriage. He would not have people gossip about their propriety even if she has little care for it. 

If she is there when he shows up, he lets her get impatient with his refusal to go to her room to chat freely. She will visit him in his treehouse when she can, and they would have time to be alone then. But here, he needs to be proper, for her sake, polite distance and watchful audience between them. He makes no mention of the flowers he always places on the table and she smiles at them when she thinks he is not looking. It is in rare moments like these he outsmarts her – when it comes to her, he is always looking. 

If she is not there, he offers five pounds for the landlady to bring his flowers to her the next time she returns, even if the flowers would have wilted at that point, because Enola would be able to tell from the flowers when he last visited.

He goes to feminist rallies whenever he can. His presence does not draw suspicion like some other men’s would. The women at the rally recognise him now as the young lord that voted for the Bill. Sometimes he is invited to speak, but he always declines – it is not his oppression nor his opinion he wants to share. He always imagines a world where everyone would be treated as equals in a roundabout way, because that is how he was brought up by his father. But he had never felt the injustices done to women until he met Enola. The women in his life have always been content in their role, happy to be taken care of. He would not have treated them ill, but he always assumed that he needed to make decisions for them, to protect and to cherish. But Enola is different, and the world where a government would not want to listen to the smartest person he had ever met is simply stupid. So he stands and lets the women in the rallies speak, for Enola, as Enola. 

He hopes Enola sees him, or maybe her mother would (because her opinion matters the most to Enola), and recognises his presence to be the promise he intends it to be. Marriage would not be a cage to Enola, not if he has any say in it.

Nonetheless, he does not have forever. There are only so many careful snubbing of introductions made in ballrooms and mysterious visits to a lodging house that his reputation can take. He has no intention to see Basilwether Hall being passed down to his distant cousins. He needs some form of reassurance that this is going somewhere, even if they are not to be wedded immediately. If Enola would not consider it, then he would learn to be with her in some other way as a friend, before it got bitter for the two of them. 

So he says to her, one afternoon after a particularly excruciating case, her face drenched with sweat and her bare feet dangling down his treehouse like ripe fruit ready for picking, “my mother would love to have you in Basilwether Hall properly, so would I.”

He trusts her to know what _properly_ meant, she is far more worldly than she once was, and this time she would recognise a proposal in his invitation. Though he highly doubts that she did not know the first time. 

“Tewky –” she turns. It is important to have the same invitation given the second time. 

“I don’t need a yes,” he says before she can say no, “just… something.” 

She lets her head rest against his shoulders, “I suppose it’s not all bad,” she says quietly, “you have a house in London. And I can see myself there, _properly_. At least I don’t have to take clients in the noisy common kitchen anymore.”

Tewkesbury knows a yes when he sees one. He lifts her head and seals her lips, like he had wanted since forever, propriety be damned. He is not going to let her say anything else to ruin this moment. He kisses and kisses and _kisses,_ and with tremendous wonder he does not feel her pushing away. If she is letting him hold her, then he is not going to let go. 

When they finally stop, it is because she topples him over. She scrambles off him, embarrassed. He is delighted to know she has some sense of modesty, so he does not even mind the insult coming out of her mouth. 

“Useless boy,” she blushes. 


End file.
